


Regista

by 994527



Category: Football RPF, Formula 1 RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Random Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:50:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1695497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/994527/pseuds/994527
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This stays between us.”</p><p>Fernando looked at him and half smiled with a nod. “It does.”</p><p>“Every time…”</p><p><i>Every time?</i> “Every time.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regista

**Author's Note:**

> Xabi Alonso was too smooth the other night. Alonso, Alonso...and here we are. Written as a world that saw Ferrari successfully build a car for 2014 ;)

Fernando didn’t really know why he’d done it, in the beginning, but he knew he liked the fact he hadn’t been ignored.

He always liked the pictures of his counterpart – the ones with his feet crossed, relaxed and effortlessly classy, as though he was unflappable. And he’d found himself recreating one, sat looking at his newest trophy, legs crossed by accident, having his own moment of misleadingly calm celebration. So he’d taken a picture of it and tweeted it. He hadn’t mentioned the other man – but Xabi followed him. And he’d seen it, and he’d retweeted it. So the next time Fernando got a trophy, he’d done it again, and tagged the footballer in it.

And felt that worrying, delicious sliver of _something_ go down his spine as he’d seen the response. 

@XabiAlonso: @alo_oficial nice… I’m just catching up.

With an accompanying picture of the midfielder in the same pose, just feet, with Fernando spraying champagne on the TV in front of him.

_He replied._

He didn’t win again until Bahrain, and this time he didn’t tag him, and he didn’t make it the first photo he published. He didn’t want to seem too keen. He didn’t know him well enough to assume it was a ‘something’ that they’d started – he’d met him before a handful of times, and he’d always had a real _conversation_ with him, but he didn’t know enough. He loved the team, and he liked a lot of the players, but Xabi was actually interesting. Away from football, away from how he was defined to the world, he was an interesting man. And Fernando liked that; he liked how they never talked about football or Formula 1. He liked how they seemed to have a lot in common, but that they didn’t belong to the same world.

So this time, he waited for the plane home and tweeted himself reading a newspaper article about Real, just feet. 

@alo_oficial: @XabiAlonso just “catching up” ;)

It took until he was sat at home eating for the response to appear, and he tricked himself into thinking it didn’t matter.

@XabiAlonso: @alo_oficial we were busy in your absence! good race! #Alo14 ;)

_WINKY FACE._

He felt 15 years old, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care what it meant, how _much_ he cared, how it felt to see that notification pop up. And evidently the other man didn’t, either.

@alo_oficial: @XabiAlonso keep it up! :)

@XabiAlonso: @alo_oficial we’re trying! ;) just like you?

 _Just like me._

@alo_oficial: @XabiAlonso yeah, you got that right! #Alo14 ;)

It took him a few hours to notice it, because it had been unexpected, but eventually he did.

@XabiAlonso: DM @alo_oficial Fer, I’m coming to Monaco. See you there?

The familiarity sent shivers down his spine, and then the content of the message seemed to sink in and he counted the days a few times before realizing he should probably reply.

_Yes, you will see me there._

@alo_oficial: DM @XabiAlonso are you coming as a guest?

@XabiAlonso: DM @alo_oficial No…?

_Perfect._

@alo_oficial: DM @XabiAlonso you are now! Which day do you arrive?

@XabiAlonso: DM @alo_oficial Thanks! Friday! This is difficult on Twitter. Give me a call? 699 468 014

He stared at the number for a while before saving it into his phone. Then he stared at the phonebook entry for a while wondering why the hell he was so invested, and then eventually took a deep breath and hit ‘call’. It seemed forever before he picked up, but when he did, the nerves disappeared and Fernando found himself suddenly just _relax_ as they got past the greetings and started to plan it.

And then he actually _dreamt_ about it. More than once. And then he had to admit it to himself – that he cared, that he was attracted to him, that he would go an awful long way to assuring the reverse could become true.

*

When he arrived it was normal, although the strangeness of a mainly online face suddenly becoming real again seemed to hit them both, and they did the garage tour, and he met the team, and he paid attention, and they talked. They had dinner together and then the midfielder went back to his hotel, sending Fernando a picture message of the taxi ride, feet up. Fernando replied with the same, in his hotel bed, and they both went to sleep smiling. The footballer sat in the garage in qualifying, and they hugged when Fernando got back from claiming pole.

Xabi was already there on race day by the time the F1 Alonso arrived, already sat with some Ferrari team members, talking, all jacket and sunglasses, effortless, genuine confidence radiating off him. And it was before the race they had the moment that really started to change it, when they’d found themselves alone, Fernando about to go out, Xabi turning to him and pulling him into a hug, lasting longer than it should, both reluctant to let go.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Win it.”

 _I will._ “I’ll try.”

They stared at each other for a second before Fernando turned and walked out, not seeing the look he got in return, the same one he’d had on his own face before.

He did win. And he won it well, and he went out onto the podium and heard the anthem and looked for him in the crowd behind the human barrier and he was there. And he smiled at him, and he seemed to understand with perfect clarity what the moment felt like, when you’ve done a good job and you deserve something, when you’ve worked hard and it’s paid off.

So they took a picture together, with the feet and the trophy, and tweeted it. Then they went back to their lives for a few weeks, until Xabi sent him a text, and he replied, and then _he_ replied, and then they were talking every two or three days. And he went to another race, and Singapore was where it changed.

No one was there except their group, and they’d had dinner early, staying on European time. The day after was for press, and so being incredibly awake didn’t matter too much. And Xabi was there. He didn’t say why, but he was there in the city and he told Fernando he was. So they had a drink that became 5, until they realised they were staying in the same hotel and walked back, to rooms on opposite sides of the same corridor, smiling and pausing in the doorway, trying to figure out if the other was feeling the same reluctance to go inside and shut the door.

After practice, they ended up talking again. And it went the same way, and it got to the same moment, before the footballer seemed to sigh and take a deep breath, eyes locking on Fernando’s and foot kicking the door slightly wider in surrender.

“You want to come in?”

The Ferrari driver froze for a few seconds before finding himself nodding. “Y-yes.” He walked in and stood in the middle of the room, hearing the rustle of Xabi’s suit as he approached him, feeling the tentative fingers start to pull his own jacket off his shoulder, the fizz against his skin as fingertips brushed his neck.

He let him pull the jacket off, let him walk slowly around him and let his eyes look at whatever they wanted. Let him slowly unbutton the shirt, eyes locked together, both in the situation for the first time in a long time, both trying to control the hungry glow in their eyes, feeling it about to snap. 

“This stays between us.”

Fernando looked at him and half smiled with a nod. “It does.”

“Every time…”

 _Every time?_ “Every time.”

The midfielder smiled and nodded in return, the Ferrari driver’s shirt now open and being pulled from his waistband, Fernando’s skin shivering under the touch. And then his trousers were off, and it was his turn to reveal square inch after square inch of Xabi, taking the same time, enjoying the game of it, until they were staring at each other, naked, curious, and extremely hard.

“You ready?”

Fernando levelled his eyes at him and smiled at the evil challenge in his voice. “Are you?”

The footballer nodded before closing the distance between them and crushing his mouth on Fernando’s, stubble rubbing together, the noise reminding both of them _who it was_ behind their closed eyes, heading for the bed, crashing onto it, fighting each other for control, each winning for a few seconds before the other came back stronger, friction building as they clawed and sweated and moaned at each other. Fucking, really _fucking_ , until they couldn’t breathe and they felt like elastic, staring at the ceiling for a few minutes or a few hours. Then one or the other would sigh happily, sit up, put their clothes back on and walk out the door without a word, everything already said. And people would notice the friendship but they wouldn’t notice the glances.

*

@alo_oficial: @XabiAlonso ¡GOOOOOOOOLAZO!

@XabiAlonso: DM @alo_oficial I’m a powerful man ;)

@alo_oficial: DM @XabiAlonso Oh, I remember ;)

@alo_oficial: Spain are the Champions, my friends... 

@XabiAlonso: And we kept on fighting, to the end...

@alo_oficial: DM @XabiAlonso I watched the final naked.

@XabiAlonso: DM @alo_oficial I hope you took a picture

@alo_oficial: DM @XabiAlonso I took a VIDEO. ;)

@XabiAlonso: DM @alo_oficial I like you. ;)

*

@XabiAlonso: Congratulations to @alo_oficial, world champion 2014! #Alo14 ;)

@alo_oficial: DM @XabiAlonso thank you. Remember the bet, Alo14?

@XabiAlonso: DM @alo_oficial well…I’m in your room, on my knees...

@alo_oficial: DM @XabiAlonso I’ll take that as a yes ;) stay there!!!!!!!

*

And that’s how it was. Sometimes Fernando would go to a game, or there would be an event. Sometimes Xabi would go to a race. Sometimes they’d just be in the same city and end up in the same hotel room. And sometimes, they’d just talk, and no one would guess.

But for each big win for either of them, there would be a picture. And then they’d meet up, eat each other alive for a few hours, and then go back to their lives again.


End file.
